


Danse Macabre

by HorsemanOnTheHellmouth, sparkyhero



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 1930's Hannibal, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Blood and Gore, M/M, No Sex, Set In The Modern Day, Suicidal Themes, mentioned child death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 23:13:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12493020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HorsemanOnTheHellmouth/pseuds/HorsemanOnTheHellmouth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkyhero/pseuds/sparkyhero
Summary: After the toughest case of his career, FBI Agent Will Graham retires to a clifftop house with a gruesome past. Doctor Hannibal Lecter, a famous serial killer and cannibal in the 1930s, used this very same building as a slaughterhouse, and his ghost is rumoured to drive people nearby to suicide off the same cliff where he took his life. As Hannibal visits him at night to persuade him to the dark, can Will escape the Cannibal's Curse?





	Danse Macabre

**Author's Note:**

> This is my work for the Murder Husbands Big Bang 2017. READ. THE. TAGS. You have been warned.
> 
> Story by [me](http://horsemanonthehellmouth.tumblr.com), art by [SparkyHero](http://sparkyhero.tumblr.com).
> 
> Accidentally deleted and reposted. Sorry.

The lovely art SparkyHero created for my story:

[](default.asp) [Link To Ao3 art post](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12493076)

“Home sweet home.”

The dogs crowded around him, eager to get out of the car. Will couldn’t blame them. The drive up the rutted track leading to the clifftop had so many potholes that it was practically one giant car-stalling, death-trap of a pothole. He cut the engine and stepped outside, breathing in the salty air. Buster yelped and ran towards the house, put suddenly veered away not five meters from the door, tail between his legs.

He didn’t know what scared the dog, but it was probably rats or some other wild animal. The house wouldn’t have been so dirt cheap if there wasn’t some kind of problem, like leaky pipes or no electricity. He could fix those problems, or deal with them. _Claws scrabbled against brick, a screech distorted by the chimney’s acoustics, the killer bellowing in his brain_. The memory disappeared as fast as it had appeared. Shaken, he whistled for the dogs and tried the key on the front door. Blue paint crumbled off the wood as the door swung open with an ear-shattering squeal. Inside, dust and cobwebs reigned, making him sneeze and hope to whoever was listening that there weren’t any spiders larger than what could be squashed under a size eleven boot.

A high whining informed him that the dogs were cowering in front of the door, tails drooping in terror. He scolded them, fondly, for being cowards before stepping outside and forcibly herding them in before shutting the door behind them. He grabbed the two boxes in the trunk and almost lost one to gravity when Winston catapulted into his legs, leaving white claw scratches in his jeans as he struggled to get past Will and into the open air. They needed time to settle in, he decided, and set out the puppy pads he had bought at the pet shop. The dogs would stay in overnight and he’d let them out in the morning. After inspecting the rest of the house (dusty but shipshape, with a mysterious doorway in the kitchen that had been sealed up with concrete), he ate a dinner of canned beef stew, heated on an ancient stove that, surprisingly, still worked. The bed was dusty but didn’t have any mysterious stains or odd smells. He pulled the covers over himself and grunted as the dogs decided it would be a fantastic idea if they all tried to fit on the bed, and apparently ‘bed’ included himself. He drifted off with a small paw digging into his gut.

He was dragged from sleep by the dogs, whimpering louder than he’d ever heard them before. They were crouched against the far wall, bellies flat to the floor. He scanned the room, rendered monotone in the weak moonlight that strained through the window. There was nothing. Wait. The man’s face was nothing but a gritty mosaic of light and shadow, but he could make out high, sharp cheekbones and lips curved in the slightest of smiles. His gaze wandered downwards, noting what looked like an expensive suit before flicking back up to his face. It could have been a trick of the light, but the man’s eyes looked almost maroon, like two drops of dry blood.

“Will, sweet boy.“

Then the man melted back into the shadows, the echo of his voice with its faint, exotic accent lingering in the air like perfume. The encephalitis was back. That was the only explanation as to why he had seen and heard a hallucination (It was not a ghost. Ghosts didn’t exist.) in his room last night. He resolutely thought of his lesson plan as he fed the dogs and himself, dressed, and drove to the FBI academy. The mundane chatter of his students kept him grounded until lunch, when he raced to Alana’s office and confessed his thoughts.

Alana, bless her heart, didn’t even blink at his rambling thoughts about the afterlife. He ran out of steam when he realised that this was probably due to acute overexposure to Margot Verger. Symptoms include knowing everything there is to know about holistic pregnancy and birth, encyclopaedic knowledge of herbal teas, and a strong belief in chakras and spirit guides and mediums. He braced himself for the inevitable reply. “Well, I suppose you could get some tests done. Maybe get a priest to bless the house, or perform an exorcism. Hell, you could even try smudging, or smoking confiscated weed. Get yourself high enough that you think you can talk to the dead.” Will sighed. He wasn’t yet desperate enough to resort to drugs. He bid goodbye to Alana and was halfway out the door when she yelled at him. “Wait! Maybe you could research the history of your house at the library. See if it really is haunted!”

He resolved to stop off at the library after work.

He crept into the library like a twelve year old coming to look at the ‘naughty books’, all furtive glances and nervous lines, settling down at a computer with sticky keys and a cracked screen, tucked away in the corner. Feeling stupid, he typed in the address of his house and pressed search. When the computer pulled up the results, his jaw dropped open. **Curse of the Cannibal: The Legacy of Doctor Hannibal Lecter**. Read the first result. Enthralled, he clicked on the link.

_The year was 1928, Baltimore, Maryland. Ballrooms were swinging and the Lindy was hopping. But inside a two story townhouse on Bluebell Avenue, a much darker story was unfolding. Inside this house lived Doctor Hannibal Lecter, a former surgeon and prominent psychiatrist who was later revealed to be one of the most sadistic serial killers in history. The FBI had been struggling for over a decade to find the serial killer nicknamed ‘The Chesapeake Ripper’, for his habit of displaying his victims in elaborate positions. All of his victims were found missing some of their organs, and occasionally bodily parts. It was later discovered that Doctor Hannibal Lecter, the man behind these brutal murders, cannibalised his victims, and, it is suspected, plated up and served human meat to his unwitting guests at his many lavish parties._

_Doctor Lecter’s reign of terror was ended by Abigail Hobbs, a young patient of his. Ms Hobbs, who was referred to Doctor Lecter after her father attempted to murder his family, confessed to the local police that she knew Doctor Lecter was a killer and the location of his ‘slaughterhouse’. The police, though disinclined to believe the young woman, nevertheless turned the information over to the FBI. The FBI then used this information to surround the location where Doctor Lecter was believed to butcher his victims. This ‘slaughterhouse’, as it was called, was the only house at the end of Coldwater Drive, a dirt road leading up to a promontory with a cliff face that plunged over a hundred and twenty feet. When FBI surveillance spotted Doctor Lecter’s car coming up Coldwater Drive, a signal was given and armed officers surrounded the house once it was confirmed that the man was inside._

_Senior officers called out to Doctor Lecter that his house was surrounded and that he should surrender and come out of the front door unarmed. Doctor Lecter replied that he would ask that they would let Abigail Hobbs into the house, so that he may say a final goodbye. Otherwise, he threatened, he would kill Henry Walker and Jason Statts, two men who had been reported missing just under a week ago. As if to verify this statement, the sounds of a man screaming in pain came from the house, followed by the voice of another man loudly begging Doctor Lecter to let him live. Unwilling to cause further loss of life, Abigail Hobbs was summoned, and on her arrival, given a small pistol to conceal in her coat. Ms Hobbs was instructed on how to fire the weapon and told to use it if necessary. Ms Hobbes was then let into the house by Doctor Lecter, who informed them that the door was unlocked. Seconds after she entered the house, armed men stormed the house. They found the pistol given to Ms Hobbs on the floor by the door. Walker and Statts were found alive, though Walker’s left arm was severed at the elbow. Meanwhile, Doctor Lecter had overpowered Ms Hobbs and, using her as a human shield, ushered her out of the back door. Officers were given orders not to shoot, as Doctor Lecter was holding a knife to her neck. Ms Hobbs appeared to be in a state of catatonia, as her father had also almost succeeded in killing her when he slashed Ms Hobbs’ neck. No doubt the memories associated with the position Doctor Lecter held her in pushed her into such a state that her mind shut down. Doctor Lecter then led Ms Hobbs to the edge of the cliff, and, embracing her, took the two of them on a final, fatal dive from the cliff._

_Boats and men scoured the beaches and coastlines for over twenty miles in each direction. Two days later, the body of Abigail Hobbs washed up on Twelve Rocks Beach, five miles from the place where Doctor Lecter took their lives. Doctor Lecter’s body was never found, nor was any evidence of his survival. Experts proclaimed that with a drop of 120 feet, the chances of Doctor Lecter surviving the fall were ‘very slim to none’. Doctor Lecter, however, seemed to find a way to continue his hobby from beyond the grave. At the time of publishing this article, 28 people have fallen from the cliff were Doctor Lecter plummeted to his death, leading to the phenomenon being given the moniker ‘The Cannibal’s Curse’. The figure of 28 is the number of people known or suspected to have fallen victim to the Curse, due to their last known location being the cliff and/or their bodies or possessions found on the beaches or in the waters around the cliff. This number is further confirmed by the autopsies, which reveal if the bodies have injuries consistent with jumping from a cliff. The actual body count is suspected to be much higher, possibly in the range of 50 to 60, due to the fact that the bodies or possessions of some missing persons were never found, and that some missing persons had ulterior motives to disappear._

_The last known location of these people being in the vicinity of Coldwater Drive was put down to coincidence. Not all of the victims of the Cannibal’s Curse lived in the house at the end of Coldwater Drive. Some were merely people out for a stroll, sightseers, or teenagers and youth dared to go up to the top of the promontory, known also as ‘The Cliff of Tears’, after the weeping generated by each suicide . It is interesting to note, however, that no person has lived in Doctor Lecter’s ‘slaughterhouse’ for over a month before they leapt off the cliff. In 1995, CCTV cameras were installed at the top of the cliff to find out whether all of the suicides were indeed just that-suicides. Three deaths were captured on film, and all shared the same eerie trait. The victims were seen to walk to the very edge of the cliff, turn sideways, and raise their arms as if they were embracing someone. They then swayed to and fro, gently, like they were a baby being rocked. Finally, they tipped over the cliff, their arms still locked in that strange position. The police could find no explanation as to this strange behaviour, nor any evidence of contact between the people observed, so that one person could not have spread the word to the others on how to take their life. The cameras were taken down shortly after the third death was captured due to vandalism._

...Maybe his house was haunted, after all. He decided to dive deeper into the rabbit hole by googling Abigail Hobbs. Again, he clicked on the first article, this one titled **‘The Torments of Abigail Hobbs’**.

_Abigail Hobbs was only seventeen years old when her father tried to kill her. She was eighteen when she died. No one knew why she would be the target of the rage of two twisted minds, but they preyed on her nonetheless. To understand the full horror she experienced during her tragically short life, we must start at the beginning. On January 17, 1927, in Minnesota, Garett Jacob Hobbs took his pistol and shot his wife once. After this, the gun jammed, and, frustrated, took a kitchen knife and slashed his daughter Abigail across the throat before running into the woods. Abigail’s life was saved by the fact that the mailman saw the spray of blood across the kitchen window, and used his training as a medic in World War One to staunch the bleeding before driving her to the hospital. A police search was launched immediately, but no more evidence was found. No note was left, and trackers and dogs sent into the nearby woods lost his trail after minutes. To this day, there have been no sightings of Garrett, nor has his body been found, leading to the conclusion that he either lived out the rest of his days in the woods (He was an accomplished hunter and woodsman) away from civilization or committed suicide soon after the crime._

_In the aftermath of this devastating attack, it was arranged for Abigail to move to Baltimore, far away from the terrible memories associated with her Minnesota house. It was in Baltimore that a certain person took interest in Abigail’s case- Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Doctor Lecter quickly took Abigail into his care, giving her personal counselling as well as money to support herself. However, this arrangement had a dark side. Hannibal was also known as the Chesapeake Ripper, a vicious serial killer only caught when Abigail went to the police with the knowledge of the true nature of her mentor. In return for this, Dr Lecter killed Abigail weeks later, presumably killing himself in the process as he took them both in a suicidal dive off a cliff. There is one final piece of the puzzle, a piece that is perhaps the most puzzling of all the parts of the Hobbs case._

_On the morning that Hobbs commenced his attack on his innocent family, a letter was left outside their door. Plain white, it was completely unremarkable. Inside the envelope was a single piece of paper, on which was written ‘They know.’ The writing was in elegant calligraphy, and was completely blank apart from the aforementioned words. There was nothing identifiable about the letter, and no fingerprints were found on it. It just appeared. Even though the Hobbs case is now shut, it still leaves more questions than answers. We may never know what caused Hobbs to snap and kill his family. Was it PTSD from WW1? Did he get tired of hunting deer and decide to move onto humans? Was he just a psychopath all along? We may never know, as the only person who survived the attack, Abigail, has only ever confided in one person, the psychiatrist who took her under his wing- Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Whatever they knew, both doctor and patient took their secrets to the grave._

“Excuse me sir, but can I help you with anything?”

Will jumped about a foot in the air at the unexpected voice next to his ear. He spun around and saw a woman so old that he would have put her in a wheelchair by default a decade ago. Rheumy eyes peered from under coke-bottle glasses, scrutinizing the computer screen as though she was sure a picture of a naked lady would pop up suddenly and she could call him a pervert and boot him out of the establishment. Sadly, no unclothed females appeared on screen and the librarian backed a step away. “Researching the Hobbs case, are you? Terrible business. I was just a young lady when it happened, but it scared me good. Still gives me the willies, thinking about the terrible things that happened to that poor girl. My goodness, Bedelia’s still mighty shaken up by it, even now. Why, the poor woman trembles every time I visit her, and gives a good tongue-lashing to anyone who mentions it. Anyway, what are you doing looking at this tragedy? Best to leave that bit of history in the past where it belongs.” Will hesitated. Nude ladies would be easier to explain than ‘my house is maybe haunted by a cannibalistic serial killer and I have fallen into a google rabbit hole about anything even remotely related to him and his case’. “I, uh, teach at the FBI. It’s a practice for my students, looking at old cases.” The librarian nodded. “Well, good luck to them. And I know I told you that Bedelia is sensitive about this case, but you might want to see if she will talk to you about the Hobbs case. Like me, she’s got a fondness for pretty boys!” She broke off to chuckle for a few seconds, and then continued. “Elysium Retirement Resort. 335 Greenfare Way. Tell her that Pattie sends her love.”

Will quickly logged off the computer and began to walk out of the library, cheeks still red at the librarian’s comment. Only a few feet from the door, he felt bony fingers pinch his bottom- hard. He whirled around to see the librarian from earlier, Pattie, grinning at him like she’d won the lottery. “Nice and firm!” She cackled. “Oh, Bedelia will absolutely love you.”

Though he did not want any more human interaction after his encounter at the library, he stopped by the church to pick up some holy water. The priest gave it to him without comment, as though scruffy borderline-hillbilly looking men came in on the daily to grab a bottle full of holy water. Satisfied that he had accomplished his tasks for the day, he returned home.

Just before Will went to bed, he splashed holy water in all four corners of the room, and said a Hail Mary. He didn’t go so far as to call out that the ‘evil demons in the house should flee from this holy place and never return’. Relying on google for cleansing rituals felt weird enough. He doubted that the cleansing would be any more effective than yelling “boo!” At his maybe-ghost, but then again, stranger things had happened. He woke up that night to the same odd chill feeling, that strange sensation that someone was watching.

“Do you pray often?”

“What?!” He stuttered. The man from the previous night stared at him impassively, half-visible in the shadows. “Do you pray often, Will?”

_Deep breath, Will. You can negotiate with a serial killer; you can negotiate with a ghost._

“Ok. First things first. Are you Doctor Hannibal Lecter?” The ghost tutted. “Yes, I am Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Now, will you answer my question?”

Will sighed. “No, I don’t pray often. Now, were you a serial killer?” Doctor Lecter tutted again. “Such crude language, dear Will. But yes, I was.”

“Are you a ghost?”

“What is a ghost, according to you?”

“I could ask you the same. But I personally think of myself as an echo, resounding through time.”

It was too late at night for discussions like this. Will turned over and pulled the covers above his head. “I’m going to sleep now. Goodbye.” Doctor Lecter’s distinctive voice filtered through his cocoon of linen and wool. “Goodnight, sweet Will. We shall talk more tomorrow night.”

Indeed, Doctor Lecter did appear the next night, silently watching Will as he emerged from blackened dreams. Will tried to calm his racing heart, still filled with dark and horror and toomuchblood. Lecter’s voice broke the silence. “What were you dreaming about, William?”

“Just Will, please. And no, I don’t want to talk about the Red Dragon.”

“I see. Tell me this though, Will, in your dreams, do you hunt him- or does he hunt you?”

Will shook his head. “I can’t answer that. But I do want more answers from you.” “I can’t give you answers, Will, only puzzles for you to solve.” “What if your puzzles are missing a piece?"

“Then you shall have to imagine one. I will leave you now, but one last question. Are you lonely?”

“Yes. But what does this have to do with anything? I’m introverted at best, and lonely is the default state if you’re as antisocial as me.” “I will send you a friend, then. Goodnight, sweet Will.” Hannibal vanished back into the shadows, leaving him confused, sweaty, and alone in the dark.

The next day brought him drizzling rain and a chill wind. As he taught, Hannibal’s words churned in his mind. I will send you a friend, then. What did he mean by that? No students had yet come up to him and asked him on a date, so he seemed to be safe. For now. It was only at lunch when he realised how wrong he was. Safe in his deserted classroom, he was eating a slightly soggy chicken and cranberry wrap when the shadows along the wall shifted. He whirled around, wrap forgotten, to see a giant stag, black as pitch, staring at him impassively. As he looked closer, he realised that it wasn’t actually a stag. Thick, glossy black feathers covered its neck like a mane, and there were a few sparse feathers were dotted along its legs and hindquarters. The stag seemed unbothered by his shock and walked over to his desk, lowering its head to sniff him.

The beast’s breath was hot and musky, and it continued to watch him intensely as he picked up his discarded wrap and took a bite. Apparently the power of wilted lettuce and an overzealous application of mayo created a sort of force field that repelled the creature, because after a few more moments, it snorted and bounded away across the classroom. As it hit the wall, the shadows seemed to engulf it and it disappeared. Will took another bite of his lunch before tossing the half-finished item in the trash. Evidently the force field generated by dodgy sandwiches repelled humans too.

“What the fuck was that creature I saw today? If that’s your idea of a friend, Hannibal, then I don’t want any more of them, thank you very much.” Lecter tutted. It seemed to be his default sound when it came to Will.

“Language. But he is a delightful creature, and interesting too. In many societies his kind is called a wendigo, a man whose lust for human flesh transformed them into a monster. This one is very old, and he has been with me when I was young. He followed me through life and death, and now it seems he is quite interested in you. Be honoured, Will. Most end up in his belly.”

“I’m flattered. Do you have any other surprises for me?”

“Yes, in fact. He and I have a gift for you.”

“Lovely. Is it an invitation to jump off the cliff behind this house?”

“It is not yet your time, Will, but soon. You will find your gift in the morning. Sleep well, dear Will.”

Hannibal was gone, leaving Will to wonder what sort of horrors he would wake up to in the morning.

The next morning, he didn’t have to wait long. Sleepily, he opened the front door to let the dogs out before making himself a cup of coffee. Not a minute later, just as he was about to take a sip of the black nectar, there was a ruckus outside of the house. Honey and Buster must be fighting again, he thought. But when he ventured outside, coffee mug in hand, he didn’t see a fight but rather a massacre.

Will stood on the brand new coffee stain on his porch, still barefoot and not caring one whit for the shards of ceramic that were no doubt littering the area. FBI techs swarmed his front lawn- or, to be more accurate, the swath of patchy grass in front of his house, bisected by the dirt road that lead up to the house. On the lawn itself, carnage reigned: Bloody trails and streaks swept across the lawn, a little more than a foot wide, as though some vindictive god had ripped off a person’s head and painted the ground with the spurting blood. In the center of the tableau sat the piece de resistance: a human heart.

Jack came up to stand beside him. “It’s too much blood for one person,” his boss explained. “The techs think that it would have taken five or six fully grown adults to produce this much blood, and that’s only if the bodies were completely drained dry. We haven’t got any leads yet, and we’ve pretty much ruled you out if that helps. There are no footprints or trace, no tire marks, no bodies, no nothing. We’ve searched your house top to bottom and the most incriminating thing in there is some dirty socks. Besides, the blood is fresh: it can’t have been there for more than a few hours at most. Even if it was frozen beforehand, the spray pattern looks like someone had their throat slashed before they ran around the lawn like a headless chicken- no pun intended. We’re drawing a blank here, Will. I know you’re retired, but please. See if you can give us something. Anything.”

Will already knew the answer. After he had called the police and the FBI, he tried to walk into the perpetrator’s mind. It was like trying to go through a door painted on a wall- he knew that there was something there, but he couldn’t see beyond it. This was Hannibal’s work, no doubt. He shook his head. “I’m retired, Jack. I don’t do this anymore.” His superior’s face fell. Will turned away, but didn’t feel guilty. His life was his own to live, no matter how much it hurt. He needed to get away from the slaughter on his front lawn. Will put the car in drive and headed toward Elysium Retirement Resort.

It was a standard old folk’s home: petunias at the front, cheery receptionist, orderlies roaming the halls. One of them guided him to Bedelia’s room, where she sat, reading some heavy tome by the light of a reading lamp. All the curtains were shut, placing the room in an eerie twilight. The orderly left, leaving him alone. Bedelia was a pretty woman, even though time had done its best to drag her features down and fade her blonde hair to grey. In her youth, she must have been stunning. Slowly, she turned to face him.

“Pattie...sends her love,” he explained. “She said you might be willing to talk to me. Sorry I should introduce myself. Will Graham, teacher at the FBI. We’re reviewing the Chesapeake Ripper case for practice.” Bedelia never blinked, her grey eyes unwavering. “I will tell you of Doctor Lecter. But before that, you will tell me a secret. The encounters between Hannibal and I were a dark time, a time that few can stand before. Too many have been consumed by its madness already. Tell me your secret, Will, the ink-dark one nobody knows you carry in your heart, the secret that weighs down your soul. Tell me and I will tell you.”

He sighed, and with his breath, the story came rushing out. “I used to be an FBI agent. Used to. I quit after the Red Dragon. Who was the Red Dragon, you ask? His name was Francis Dolarhyde. A man, or perhaps more than one. We tracked him through the states, but he always slipped our net. Left a trail of bodies in his wake. By day, I hunted him. At night, he hunted me through my dreams. The way he killed was special- he tore them apart. He attached bear teeth to a pair of dentures, wore them and ripped those unfortunate souls to shreds. We finally cornered him in Virginia, where we found him in the act of killing the Duleth family. I caught up to him in the nursery. He had the Duleth’s three week old baby in his hands. I told him to surrender the child or I would shoot. The other team members came around the corner just in time to see him crush the baby’s skull in his hands. It caved in like an egg. And then he opened his mouth and pushed the infant’s head into his mouth- and bit it off. I couldn’t stop myself. I dropped the gun- I don’t know why – and I rushed him. I grabbed around the torso and I tore his throat out with my teeth. And I enjoyed it. Heaven help me, I enjoyed it. That twisted, primal part of me revelled in the spray of arterial blood coating my throat, the flutter of his chest as he took his dying breath. For the first time, I understood why I was here on this earth. I was here to be a hunter. I stepped away from his corpse, and it fell to the ground. On the floor, his final spasms caused his mouth to open. The child’s head rolled out onto the carpet. The eyes were open.”

Bedelia hadn’t looked away once during his morbid tale. “You have passed.” She said. “I met Hannibal when he was in his forties. I myself was only in my twenties. I wanted to be a psychiatrist like him, but women weren’t supposed to pursue that career, and I met so much resistance that I gave up the fight and became a nurse. We still remained friends, though, and I became a psychiatrist of sorts, in that both my mentor and my patient were the same man. Hannibal confessed his troubles to me, and I learned from him. He kept his killer side from me well, though. He wore a person suit over a veneer of ice. No one got through to the real Hannibal. But when he died, he left his person suit in that house on the cliff, and that veneer of ice melted in the sea. Whatever’s left of Hannibal is only the man underneath.”

“He’s been haunting me.” He didn’t know why he told Bedelia this. “In my dreams, the Dragon still hunts me. When I wake at night, Hannibal is waiting for me. He twists words so they never leave my mind. How do I stop him, Bedelia? He is the serpent that lurks in the dark, fangs hidden so his prey will come closer, sure of his harmlessness. I don’t know how many more nights I can survive. It’s only been three nights and I I’m already obsessed with him. I know that in time, he will make me into what he is- a monster. I can’t do that. I can’t kill anymore, because I know that if I taste blood again my thirst for it will never be sated until my death.” For what seemed like the first time since he entered, Bedelia blinked. “I will share with you a lesson I learned long ago. The only way to outwit Hannibal is to beat him at his own game.”

“How?” He asked. Bedelia didn’t reply. He sensed that he would get no more out of her. Will left the room and closed the door behind him. On the drive home, he pondered her advice. When he arrived at the house, he knew what he had to do.

He left a message to Alana, asking her to pick up the dogs from his house and take care of them for a few days. The key was under the doormat, he explained. Then, he walked to the cliff. The sea churned hungrily under him, a deep blue maw frothing for sacrifice.

Will jumped.

Six months later: In the kitchen of the house at the top of Coldwater Drive, a man was making a cup of tea. A writer, he enjoyed the solitude it provided. Neither did the suicides bother him; in fact, he might use them as inspiration for his next novel. Something with murder in the title, maybe. That would catch the reader’s attention. The Making of a Murder, perhaps, or To Moderate a Murder. Suddenly, icy hands seized his head from behind. Unnatural strength pulled his head back. The teacup fell to the floor, a waterfall of oolong ending in a blossom of shattered bone china. Invisible teeth clamped around his throat and crimson blood mingled with spilt tea and broken crockery.

From a place beyond life, two souls gloried in slaughter.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments are my lifeblood. Sacrifice to me.


End file.
